


Madness

by KnightNight7203



Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-07 12:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7715461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightNight7203/pseuds/KnightNight7203
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is the headline of every paper the next morning: Vicomte de Chagny found dead, cold and pale, strangled with the clean white sheets of his marriage bed." In which two wrongs don't make a right, black stains never fade to white, and there is darkness in both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She is cold. Cold and wet.

Her damp hair is slicked across the bare skin of her throat, water already soaking through the thin robe where it falls across her back. The storm outside is unseasonably strong, and the festivities had been cut short due to the rain. For that she’s grateful — it had been tiring to smile, to laugh, to converse to Raoul’s family as though she could ever hope to call his many relations her own. But she isn’t sure she’s ready for this, either.

He’s going to realize. She’s sure of it. And who knows what will become of her then.

“Lotte, today was perfect,” he says in a content voice. Proud. She murmurs a quiet assent, and he beams. “You were lovely in your dress.”

The thing lays across the back of a chair now, dripping and rather disheveled in appearance, but she supposes it was nice while it lasted. Perfect, in fact, like a fairy tale. The fairy tale Raoul was born to have.

But she was not. She was bound to squander her happy ending in one way or anther. She had chosen the poison, but death was inevitable either way.

Distantly, she thinks it’s strange how her mind likens it to poison. How morbid. Yet she had never felt so alive.

“I’m sure you charmed my family as well.” He pulls off his dripping jacket and throws it beside the dress, his grin lessening somewhat. But even the thought of his cold and distant mother can’t dull his mood for long on his wedding night. “They’ll come around. Everything is going to work out now.”

She wonders if she looks as bad as she feels. Pale face and clammy skin. Tremors wracking her thin body. Something must be off about her appearance, at any rate, because Raoul gives her a sympathetic look.

“Don’t be nervous, Lotte.” His fingers are on the buttons of his shirt now, slowly working their way down his chest. “I promise, you’ll be fine.”

She tries to smile, but fails. Grimaces instead. He moves closer.

“Trust me, Christine. Just think of how wonderful it will be to start a family at last! You’re opera days are behind you — I’ll give you everything you could ever want now.”

There are far too few layers between them. It’s hard to breathe.

She closes her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

He senses her before he even turns around, stomach dropping upon the realization of her presence. How is it that she always knows when he returns to this place? Comes here herself, as if to intercept him? To torment him further? God, how he wants to hate her.

But he can’t. Especially now.

When he does turn around — which he inevitably does, because he’s learned by now that he’s powerless to resist her — he notices first that she’s soaking wet. If the rain is anything like it was earlier, he’s surprised she made it here at all — don’t the nobility have rules against traveling alone in such storms? Apparently not. After all, she herself is a _vicomtesse_ now.

After he’s crossed to her — to tell her that, and send her away again, of course— he sees that she’s crying. Her tears mix with the rainwater on her face, and he remains at least three feet away. He can still tell.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he feels guilty for leaving. He knows he was right to do so. But it still hurts, the both of them.

He has hurt her so much.

He never planned on confronting her after — or, indeed, on seeing her ever again — so he doesn’t know what else to say. Should he explain? Surely she knows why he didn’t stay.

But then, why is she crying?

Rather than struggle with the words he’s not sure will come anyway, he remains silent. But she has no such reservations, despite the sobs wracking her body.

“Raoul is dead,” she chokes out. And then she collapses on the ground.

_Raoul is dead._

Emotions he doesn’t completely understand, that he hasn’t felt this intensely or together in years, overcome him. Horror. Elation. Confusion. Concern. He wants to hold her close to him again, to kiss her until the pain goes away, but he doesn’t think that’s appropriate. He also wants to kill someone, but as the person causing her pain is already dead, that’s not possible either. But why did she come to him? Does she want something from him?

He doesn’t know how to help her. Never really has. Surely never will.

She doesn’t protest when he lifts her gently into his arms and carries her to his chair. Doesn’t even lift her head. He receives a similar lack of response when he lowers himself onto the cushion beside her and pulls her partially onto his lap. She cries into his shirt for hours, and he rubs her back lightly. Tries to be content with that meager allowance of contact. It’s enough for now. It has to be.

In time she quiets, her breathing even now. Her eyelids have fluttered closed, and her heartbeat steadies. She is asleep. He intends to hold her through the night this time, free to in ways he wasn’t before, but even as the thought crosses his mind she jerks away. Panting, as if she was having a nightmare.

This nightmare, unfortunately, continues into real life.

“Raoul is dead,” she says again. Agitated, as if it is the first time. He nods, strokes her head gently, pulls her closer to him once more.

“I know,” he whispers.

Of course he does.


	3. Chapter 3

It is the headline of every paper the next morning: Vicomte de Chagny found dead, cold and pale and naked, strangled with the clean white sheets of his marriage bed.

He runs the whole way back to the opera house, not caring if wide eyes follow him in the street. What’s one more reason to stare, after all? Mask stark against the early morning shadows, cape flapping behind . . . It’s a relief to be enveloped by the darkness of the sewers once more, if only for a moment. Then reality crashes down again.

This isn’t what he wanted.

She is exactly where he left her, slumped in his chair, and he kneels before her. He’s out of breath — from running, but also fear. He knows how this looks. After all, he’s done it before.

“I swear to you, Christine, it wasn’t me. I surrendered. I would never go back on my word.”

It is imperative that she understand this.

Her eyes are dull as she stares into the darkness beyond the lake. Listless. “Of course not,” she says finally, her voice hoarse. It sounds nothing like her normal one now, but it feels as if a weight has been lifted from his chest regardless. “If I thought it you had, I would never have come here.”

“But–“ the words catch in his throat, too personal, too dangerous, but he must know for sure “–you were there? You . . . You saw it happen?”

She nods, seems to fold into herself. Cringes violently. “God, yes,” she whispers. “I wish I could have been anywhere else.”

It’s a strange choice of words for one who lost her husband; should she not wish that _he_ had been far away instead, to escape the hands of the killer? But she is distraught, and not thinking clearly. Traumatized. As she well should be.

After all, she’d been terrified by less before.

Yet he presses a little harder, testing the boundaries. “Did you see him? It was a man, was it not? I’m sure the Vicomte must have made other enemies apart from myself, in his arrogance–“

“He was not _arrogant_!”

She springs to her feet, eyes glazed with a terrible desperation, and he quiets immediately. Too far, then. “Of course,” he says slowly. “But nevertheless, he was an important figure. Those kinds of people have rivals.”

“It was dark.” He had forgotten when the Vicomte was killed, where he was and what he was doing, but it comes rushing back to him now. He clenches his fists, wants to stride away. Resists. Christine is his no longer, if she ever was. “I saw nothing. I only heard it.” There are tears in her eyes now, and he thinks briefly of wiping them from her face, but he can’t bring himself to raise his hand. She shivers.

“And then I ran.”


	4. Chapter 4

Christine will speak no more of that night, and that is fine. He doesn’t want to know the details. He’s terrified she’ll reveal a hint of what happened before the Vicomte was killed.

He has no desire to know if she’s been with another man.

So they slip into a routine of silence and staring. He prepares food and places it on the table before her. He then pretends not to notice when she refuses to touch it. He can hardly berate her for it. He doesn’t eat, either. Not when she’s nearby, at least.

She stares at the darkness lurking beyond the candles. He stares at her. When their gazes meet, they both jerk their eyes away. Guilty. Confused.

Empty.

“You’re in the papers this time,” he says, almost a week later, waving the day’s issue at her. She doesn’t need to read it, of course. The retelling of the night’s events, more callous with every recapitulation, would only upset her further. But she should know this much, at least. “They fear you were taken by the murderer.”

“What?” For a moment, there’s a spark of life in her eyes. They widen, stare him down questioningly. He sighs.

“You’re missing, do you recall? You ran straight here, I’m assuming, after . . . the events of that night. They don’t know you’re safe.”

She blinks down at her hands, where they’re folded neatly in her lap. Carefully. Blank once more. “They do love to make me out to be the victim, don’t they,” she mutters scathingly. Her tone is in stark contrast with the vagueness of her expression.

She is a victim, of sorts. A victim of circumstance, as she always has been. But he doubts she would appreciate that sentiment now. She’s lost almost everything — everything except him, and that’s a small consolation. She won’t want to have any last fragment of control over her life denied to her, too.

“In their defense, you have been . . . apprehended before,” he observes dryly instead. Not that it was successful. “And you _are_ in the company of _a_ murderer.” She glares at him, and he shrugs. “It would be unwise to forget it, Christine.”

“Well, evidently, you’re not the only one who can take a life,” she breathes, and then she has stormed away, leaving him to wonder what he said this time. Perhaps she’s still in shock. Or afraid.

Afraid of him? He hopes not. But something is certainly causing her fear.

He wonders if, this time, it’s real or in her head. He was always real, even when the others didn’t believe her stories of his presence. But even before the Opera Ghost took an interest in her, Christine Daaé was a haunted little girl. She slept on her father’s tombstone and dreamed of angels possessing her. The shadows echoed with the violin music she could hear absolutely only in her dreams.

He only won her from her father by _becoming_ her father. In a sense. If the Vicomte de Chagny has become her new ghost, then he has lost her for good.

This isn’t what he wished for them at all.


	5. Chapter 5

It is hardest in the dark.

Of course, it’s always dark underground. She hasn’t seen the sun in weeks. Doesn’t want to. It burns, leaving guilt molten in its wake. But during the day there are candles, during the day _he_ is there. He keeps the nightmares at bay. Ghosts can’t walk where angels are singing. He sings for her now, if only under his breath.

She hasn’t sang since before that night.

But at night he refuses to stay with her, disappears somewhere that only he can go and leaves her alone in the darkness of her room. He’s deaf to her begging, shakes his head sadly and slips away. She doesn’t know why he leaves her. She’s his now.

There’s no one else for her to go to.

But he leaves, and she’s left to the horrors of her memories.

Raoul visits her most nights. He is pale and translucent, a skeletal smile on his face. A ghastly grimace. It’s funny that he and Erik have almost swapped appearances, at least in her mind, after that night. But he cannot help that he is dead, cannot help what becomes of his body now that it is separated from his soul.

It is not his fault.

He never blames her, as she blames herself. Just holds her close — though she doesn’t want to be held — and whispers to her. He tells her of the life they would have had. The children. The parties. The trips around the world. Sometimes she finds herself wanting it, missing what can now never be. She would have made a good vicomtesse, he tells her, and she believes him. For a while.

But she wouldn’t have. Really, she was lucky she had the chance to escape.

Lucky she was not killed, too, that night.

Sometimes he tries to pick up where he left off, and she wakes gagging and out of breath. She tries to picture Erik instead, relying on memories where imagination fails. How she wishes her imagination would fail her in other ways.

Sometimes the faces blend together. Sometimes it _is_ Erik above her instead of Raoul, though his eyes do harbor stabbing accusation. Sometimes it is neither of them, just a faceless entity of darkness. That’s all she deserves. She was so very horrible to both of them, to both of the men who loved her despite the fact that she was not worthy.

And now, it seems, she is damned to have neither.

“Does it ever go away?” she asks Erik one morning. He glances at the dark circles under her eyes and knows what he means.

“I have never lost someone so close to me,” he whispers. Shrugs, helpless. “I don’t know.”

But he does. Oh, he must. For if he doesn’t understand her now, all is truly lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think is going on in the comments and I'll post the next chapters soon!


	6. Chapter 6

He returns home from an errand to find her staring at the torture chamber, eyes flickering back and forth across the glass as if in a daze. He remembers the rope still secured to the tree just within the boundaries of the mirrors and wonders if she thinks of it too. He’ll have to remember to take it down. He can’t have his little vicomtesse trying to do herself in again, even if it’s not in response to his own presence this time.

He never wants to lose her again, even if he’s decided he can’t truly reclaim her as his own, either.

“Humans don’t die quickly, do they?” she murmurs, almost to herself. He’s not even sure she’s realized he’s there. “So much breath . . . So many heartbeats . . .”

And suddenly it’s not her life he’s concerned for.

She’d said she listened as Raoul was killed. Perhaps she refers to the horror of witnessing the act. Perhaps she laments her helplessness and replays his final breaths in her mind, recalling the amount of suffering, the panic, the desperation.

But deep down, he knows better. He knows exactly what she meant. How often have the same thoughts crossed his mind?

“Christine.” He is in front of her now, stooping down to reach for her where she sits curled upon the floor. She lets him pull her upright, barely blinking at his tight grip. “Christine, I must ask you something.”

He has to know.

“Anything,” she says dully, shrugging a little. It seems her resistance had vanished along with her appetite. “Ask what you wish.”

And before he can think better of it, before he can convince himself that he can live in happy ignorance just as long as she’s there with him, he does.

“Were you entirely truthful about that night?”

All of a sudden she twists away, arms wrapped around her middle so to not touch him. There is devastating horror etched in every line of her thin face. But this time, he thinks, it’s not he who’s unworthy of the contact.

It’s her.

This is so very wrong, twisted in an unbearable trick of fate. Christine was supposed to be the angel to his demon, the heaven to his hell. She instilled humanity in his warped and damaged soul and reminded him why he lives, why he should _want_ to.

He was never supposed to drag her down into this infernal madness alongside him.

“It _was_ you,” he says. His voice is dark and angry; he’s angrier than he’s been in weeks. He’s not even sure why he’s angry. Because she fell? Or because he showed her how?

She doesn’t even deny it. Her face smooths as she regains her unfeeling facade, and she turns from him, though he circles around her until they’re face to face once more.

“He would have guessed, Erik.” Remarkable, really, how she can act so unaffected now. There are no tears in her eyes. Her voice doesn’t break. “He would have known I hadn’t been faithful and I couldn’t put him through that.”

“So you _killed_ him instead? Oh, Christine–“ Can he protest, really? He’s ended more lives than he can count. But not that boy’s. Not in front of her.

“I meant it to be quick!” Now a note of panic enters her voice. Frustration. “I didn’t know how slowly a person suffocates . . . how tightlyone must squeeze . . . it was meant to be an escape!” She shakes her head, spins away. “He was supposed to just slip away!”

Stupid child — of course it doesn’t work like that. There’s an art to it, a dedication beyond simply deciding to offer a release. But just as quickly as the rage had flooded his body does it slip away again. She cannot possibly have known. Really, all of this is due to things she didn’t know.

So he does the only thing he can. He pulls her close and consoles her in his embrace.


	7. Chapter 7

Before either of them really realize what’s happening her lips are on his. And he permits it. Even if he wanted to stop her, he’s not sure he could. He knows that whatever happens, he wants this to continue on and on.

It’s not that he’s forgotten what she’s done, or that he’s forgiven her. He certainly hasn’t forgiven himself. But somehow, even with this unforeseen complication, things have never been so simple. There is no vicomte. There is no Angel of Music, or Opera Ghost. There is only Erik and Christine, together and free at last.

For if either of them belong to anything, it’s Death. And surely Death won’t mind sharing, after all they have done for him.

She wrinkles her delicate nose against the porcelain of his mask and raises her fingers tentatively to his face. He doesn’t stop her, and though she hesitates, she doesn’t stop herself either. He understands her reluctance of course — in addition to the gruesome disfiguration he hides, his temper has also been set off on numerous occasions when she’s attempted to bare his face. But selfishly, he recalls how it feels to have her fingers exploring the skin no one else would dare, and prays feverishly that she’ll continue.

Yet all the prayers in the world don’t mask the little shudder she can’t completely suppress at the sight of him.

“You don’t have to look at it,” he says immediately, forcing his voice to remain flat. Last time she didn’t mind it so, but it was much darker then, he reminds himself. “The mask can remain on.”

“I deserve it,” she whispers, and he’s horrified at the tears that spring to her eyes at the idea. “It’s a fitting punishment.”

He never wanted to be her punishment; he wanted to be her salvation. Certainly not her damnation, as has evidently become the case. But perhaps this is meant to be a punishment for both of them: her faced with an outward manifestation of the distortion of both his soul and hers, and him forced to bare his one weakness in this moment of vulnerability.

Yet as she lays her soft cheek against his and warmth swells within his chest, he wonders if either of them are truly atoning for their sins. In this moment, or ever.

Afterwards, she’s pale and shaking and he cradles her gently with her head tucked neatly beneath his chin.

“You should eat,” he says. He has not seen her consume food in at least a day, and what few meals she’s choked down before that consisted only of bread and water. He’s not sure if it’s lingering sorrow at the loss of her friend that hinders her appetite or some sort of penance to atone for her guilt, but he wonders how much longer it can go on.

“I’m not hungry,” she says, and in that moment her voice is serene and lovely once more. “I just want you to hold me.”

How can he refuse?


	8. Chapter 8

He sings to her daily now, knowing that it helps her forget. Deep down, he hopes it will help himself forget as well. She still hasn’t reciprocated, and he won’t ask her to. But he can’t help but feel that some day, when she’s ready, she’ll surprise him and bless him with her voice once more.

She’s standing by the piano early one morning — neither of them sleep very much these days — and swaying gently with the beat when blood begins to spread across the skirt of her pale dress. They both notice at the same time. His eyes widen in shock. Hers slide closed, as if she’s in pain.

He jumps to his feet, moves around to stand by her, hovers helplessly. He doesn’t know what to do. He has killed many times before, but he’s not sure he’s ever seen this much blood.

Her eyes are open now, staring widely at him from her pale, pale face. But she doesn’t move, doesn’t cry out, doesn’t even seem to breathe.

“Is this normal?” he demands, already knowing from her expression that it’s not. Her pallid cheeks. Her shaking hands.

“I think . . .” She takes a shaky breath, eyes wide and glassy but full of emotion once more. Fear. Sorrow. Regret. “I think I was pregnant.”

It is as if the bottom has dropped out of his stomach. He staggers, reaches out to grab the wall. Almost falls anyway.

_Was._

He has been patient, painfully patient, with her these past weeks. But he can no longer find it in his tortured soul. His hands are in her hair, pulling her with him, and though she struggles weakly she can not break free.

“Whose was it?” he demands, his voice thunderous. She gazes blankly into the distance. He shakes her. Her eyes close again. “Christine, I must know. Whose child?”

“Yours,” she whispers, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Dripping onto his wrist. “It must have been. Raoul and I never–“

He releases her abruptly and she falls, too shocked to catch herself. The blood is pooling across her dress and he forces his eyes away. His heart clenches. “Did you know?”

“Did I know what?”

His last nerve is frayed through, weak hold on his temper gone. He is outright shouting now. Enraged. “While you were sitting here starving yourself, did you know you were with child? Did you know what you were doing?”

Maybe she nods. Maybe she shakes her head. There is red creeping into his vision, and he does not see either way. “Murderer!” he screams for the first time, knowing how it will hurt her and not caring either way. She _deserves_ it. His hand connects with her face. She falls to the ground and lies motionless. It’s as if she is dead. Once the idea would have horrified him, but now he is simply numb.

Perhaps they should both join their unborn child in death.


	9. Chapter 9

When her eyes open once more she is in her bed, dressed in a nightgown. She is clean and dry, and so for a moment she lets herself forget what had happened. What she had allowed to happen.

But she had never guessed that this outcome was even a possibility. How is it that life clings so desperately when she needs it to be extinguished, and yet slips away now when she cannot bear to lose it?

This is what she gets for playing God. It appears she has angered the real thing, maybe beyond repair. Because death, like life, is wild and unpredictable. It is not her place to interfere.

Now she is paying the price for her actions. And from one glance at Erik’s face, where he sits at her bedside with a stone-cold expression, she knows it isn’t just her — they both suffer.

“Erik,” she says. Her voice is rough, dry. He doesn’t speak at all.

“I’m sorry.”

This time he inclines his head slightly. “I know. I am as well.”

She wants to tell him that he’s done nothing wrong, but she can’t find the words.

“Did it– Was there–“ She doesn’t know how to voice this question, either, but she must.

He merely clenches his fists, the corners of his mouth tightening. “I took care of it.”

“I want to see,” she whispers, her voice trembling, “I _need_ to–“

“NO!” The scream is so unwavering and so final that she jolts back, any further protests caught in her throat. Erik looks slightly guilty at his outburst, more so after tears begin to flow down her cheeks once more, but doesn’t change his mind. “I apologize for shouting, but no. You forfeited the right.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again. But if he heard, he gives no indication. He has already turned away.

She looks around the room. The dress she had been wearing hangs by her bed, the stain dark and unforgiving against the pale fabric. It burns inside of her almost as much as his gaze, and so when he leaves the room she stumbles out of bed, rips it down, and shoves it roughly in the bottom of her closet. She wants to destroy it, to throw it into the fireplace or send it to the bottom of the lake, but she can’t bring herself to.

It’s all she has left of the child that never was.

Promising herself that she won’t speak of this again, that she’ll let things return to the way they were, she walks slowly to the door of her room. “Erik?” she calls, making her way down the hall. She can see his piano, and the kitchen. There’s no response. There’s no one there at all.

He’s left her.

Her response is not at all dramatic this time — no tears, no screaming, no throwing his possessions to shatter on the floor. She realizes for the first time, with a twinge of guilt, that he doesn’t have many possessions left — she’d guessed he hadn’t been living here any longer, but that doesn’t take away from the desolate feel of what was supposed to be her safe haven.

If he never comes back, she’ll have little to remember him by.

She can’t stay here, doesn’t want to. Everywhere she looks is a ghastly reminder of all her shortcomings and sins, angry accusations of the wrongs she has committed of late. She stumbles from the empty room, down one of the passages, and into the basement of the opera house. Eyes wide, she scans the shadows.

And meets the gaze of a young stage hand, who stares at her in horror.


End file.
